Heather is new to Portland, so I’ve taken it upon myself to inculcate in her an understanding of Portland’s all-around greatness. One of Portland’s greats is Gus Van Sant. I was shocked to learn not only that his films were not one of her reasons for moving here, but that she’d only seen Good Will Hunting! So I dragged her to Portland’s venerable art house theater, Cinema 21, to see Paranoid Park.

Paranoid Park is the kind of film I have to see in a theater. If a movie doesn’t play by the rules, i.e. if it makes me pay attention and think, I, like most moviegoers, sometimes lose patience (the floor needs sweeping, let me get up and get another glass of wine, maybe it’s my turn on Scrabulous . . . ). I netflixed Gerry, Elephant, and Last Days and didn’t get through any of them (I’m both a lazy blogger and a lazy movie watcher). In his review, Shawn Levy succinctly sums up what it is about Paranoid Park and Van Sant’s other “arty” films:

Like “Gerry,” “Elephant” and “Last Days,” it’s built of long, often mobile, often dialogue-free shots; a disconnected narrative; and an emphasis on mood and texture instead of plot and explicit characterization. These films seem entirely unfettered by the demands of the commercial cinema and answer instead to a kind of poetic dream logic, in which repetition, fractured logic and novelties of craft don’t distract from the point but rather are the point: the sensation as subject matter. What seemed to have begun as an experiment has become a stylistic signature; Van Sant’s latest films feel as if they come from another country and, at times, from another world.

I had read the review before I watched the film, so I was prepared to pay attention.

It was easier than I thought it would be; I immediately identified with the main character, Alex. My 16th year, too, was an inexorable swirl of Holden-Caulfieldish cynicism and apathy held together by the glue of stoicism. The adult world eventually overwhelms every kid, some more abruptly than others.

Blake Nelson’s story, Van Sant’s vision, and the cast’s performances capture that liminal stage in one teenager’s life, a teenager with a crumbling home life and an ill-fated rainy night in a rail yard.

Portland’s noirish qualities are on fine display. Van Sant, as always, gets good performances from new and unknown actors. His skill as a director and editor combined with Gabe Nevins’ subtle performance successfully positions the viewer in the non-linear narrative mind’s eye of Alex. You do have to pay attention though.

This is the beer festival I’ve never gone to. The reason I’ve never gone is that it’s held at the Oregon Convention Center. (Whichever door and 1/2 mile long hall you pick when entering the behemoth, you always end up at the wrong end first; and may nearly enter a golf show before you locate your intended destination. Better signage would be helpful.) But this year I might give it a shot. Mainly because I’m intrigued by the concept of a tour de Cheese and the Island Times fest special from 3-5pm Saturday.

And if beer and cheese isn’t enough for you, Paranoid Park opens at Cinema 21 Friday and runs through the 27th. I usually wait until Netflix, but this is one movie I will make sure to see in the theater. Portland may appear in top 10 lists and the New York Times every day, but not on the silver screen.

Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho is the film I recommend to all my Portland transplant friends. It provides a glimpse into the city almost two decades ago. The Pearl, for example, didn’t exist; Blitz-Weinhard’s malty steam suffused the area. The loading docks were loading docks by day, prostitute promenades by night. Powell’s was half its present size (but still huge) and the Stark Street American Apparel was the Great Northwest bookstore. Portland was rainy, gritty, and possessed a noirish beauty. I like to think it still does.

It’s a gorgeous and daring and resonant film that still feels fresh and vivid . . . . And for someone like me, an unapologetic civic jingoist who didn’t know Portland well at all in 1991, it’s a revelation.

The film is filled with uniquely Portland signatures, from actual civic landmarks to beloved buildings to oddball local characters. Van Sant’s hustlers and junkies inhabit the north end of Portland’s downtown, lolling around a restaurant (then Chinese, now Thai) at the corner of Southwest Broadway and Ankeny, living in the then-under-renovation Governor Hotel, flopping in doorways near Jake’s Famous Crawfish, the venerable bar and restaurant in the downtown gay district (the dear departed Great Northwest bookstore makes a cameo appearance).

Portland writer Blake Nelson, author of the book on which the film is based (Library | Powell’s), interviews Gus about the film and his inspirations.

Gus’ interesting take on Portland:

It’s not a big enough city that people really move to or move out of. It gets more cosmopolitan every decade. It’s still its own universe. It’s a frontier town. And even with an influx of people that have come from the outside, it still retains a small-town existence. Like Boise, Idaho, where the people that are there, they were born there, and they will die there.